


if the occasion arises

by thefudge



Series: mr. and mrs. holmes [5]
Category: Enola Holmes (2020), Enola Holmes Series - Nancy Springer
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Period-Typical Racism, feeeeeeeelings, ost: alexandre desplat - it's romance (little women ost)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:35:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27619823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefudge/pseuds/thefudge
Summary: Sherlock decides to go after Edith, in more ways than one.
Relationships: Edith Grayston/Sherlock Holmes
Series: mr. and mrs. holmes [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1952764
Comments: 31
Kudos: 178





	if the occasion arises

**Author's Note:**

> ahhhh, finally! it's felt like ages since i last published an installment. warning: major, ridiculous fluff. be advised! <3  
> (thank you so much for all the love this series has gotten!)

Not that he minds.

This is the tune he whistles to himself as he peruses the morning paper, decked out with ghastly, overwritten articles about the “panic” at Vauxhall.

No. Not that he minds.

It’s only – well, it would have been _polite_ to announce one’s departure.

But Edith has always done things her way.

He was rather looking forward to their breakfasting together. He does not always indulge in extensive meals at regular hours, but he was willing to make an exception.

Alas.

Yes, but not a very serious “alas”. So what if she left at the crack of dawn without so much as a note? She must have been worried about the shop.

Yes, how thoughtless of him.

He is rudely shaken out of his quite lamentable thoughts by Mrs. Hudson’s appearance with the tea tray.

“I wish to inform you, Mr. Holmes,” she begins in a very serious manner, “that the young lady who slept under this roof last night is unmarried. In case you wish to invite her again.”

Sherlock smiles. “I see. I might, in fact, wish to invite her again. Or, are you perhaps suggesting, that it would be better to invite only married women?”

His poor landlady’s cheeks turn an angry shade of red. “It is quite _early_ in the day for such unwarranted comments, Sir.”

Sherlock obediently demurs. He begs forgiveness and mollifies Mrs. Hudson well enough that she allows him to look into the guest chamber before she returns the room to anonymity. 

Not that Edith has left many traces. She has laid the rich gown Eudoria bequeathed her on the coverlet. It almost looks unworn.

Sherlock walks up to the bed. He lowers his hand and runs his knuckles down the watercress silkiness of the skirts.

Mrs. Hudson stands in the doorway, arms folded over her chest.

“I lent her an old dress of mine. Miss Grayston said she would return it, but not in person.”

Sherlock hums, but says nothing, still contemplating the other dress.

He can feel Mrs. Hudson’s shrewd eyes upon him. She has sensed something different about him. She loves nothing better than a good romance, invented or otherwise.

“I do think you ought to be settled, Mr. Holmes. It’s not right for a man of your age and occupation to live a solitary life.”

Sherlock retracts his fingers. There it is.

“Oh, I have settled perfectly well with you Mrs. Hudson.”

She scowls, though her mouth can’t help but sketch a smile. “Why, you know very well what I mean.”

“Do I? And who else shall live with me?”

“Certainly not Miss Grayston.”

Sherlock looks at her over his shoulder. His eyes narrow. “And why ever not?”

“She’s too good for you, I imagine,” she replies tartly.

Sherlock grins. “I cannot dispute the fact.”

Mrs. Hudson shakes her head wistfully. “But I do not suppose you could marry her, Mr. Holmes, could you?”

He frowns. “The laws do not forbid it.”

“You know what I mean,” she mumbles, repeating her earlier remonstrance, but softer now. “I would not mind it one bit, for she seems a steady, level-headed girl, but I know many in your company who would. Your brother would never countenance it. It would be a scandal.”

“Goodness, Mrs. Hudson. Poor Miss Grayston has stayed with us for only one night and you already speak of scandal,” he replies, trying to make light of it, though he knows he cannot fool the old matron.

“I only tell you what you already know, Mr. Holmes. But you are a very singular person. You already carry on a very strange sort of life. I suppose that, in time, everyone will come to accept your uncommon choice because they know you for an uncommon man.”

Sherlock stops before her. He takes her hand in his and squeezes it. Her kind words mean more to him than he could say.

Which is why he says, “It was only one night, Mrs. Hudson.”

His tone is gentle, thankful.

She smiles. She knows he understood.

Enola plops down in her seat, head buried in the newspaper.

“I can’t believe I missed it! I would’ve _loved_ to be at the scene of the crime.”

Sherlock frowns. “For once, I am glad Mother kept you out of it. It was no place for a young girl. Or anyone of sound mind, really.”

“Tosh. It must’ve been so exciting. Fenians! Explosions! Ladies in disguise!”

“Please eat your lunch while you narrate the penny dreadful you are conceiving in your mind,” Sherlock instructs, clipping his own napkin into his collar.

“Mother told me you were there to save the day.”

“I, unfortunately, saved little.”

Enola looks about the room with a sly look. “Is it true Edith slept here last night? Will she join us for lunch?”

Sherlock lowers his fork. “Yes. And no.”

His sister reaches for the salt shaker with a small smirk on her lips. “What did you do to run her off?”

Sherlock heaves a sigh. “Why do you assume it was my doing?”

“Have you told her you like her yet?”

He points the fish knife at her. “One more question out of you and I will send you up to your room.”

Enola shrugs. “You’re no good at threats. I don’t mind my own company, and I can pick the lock on the door if I need to. But I am more interested in helping _you_ with your romantic troubles.”

Sherlock makes a disgruntled noise in the back of his throat.

“Good lord, I preferred it when you were a runaway.”

“You must tell her how you feel, Sherlock. I know you don’t often declare yourself but –”

“Actions speak louder than words,” he mutters, resigned to this insolent interrogation. “And it’s not that I do not tell her…things. I tell her many things, in fact.”

He specifically recalls telling her more than he should have, many times.

Enola raises an eyebrow. “ _Things_? You need to express your feelings plainly, or she will always be in doubt of your true intentions. Most importantly, you must assure her your intentions are noble and pertaining to the heart.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

Enola blushes slightly. “I may have read that in a book somewhere.”

“Hm. I must recommend you better reading material in the future.”

“You can’t deny that I’m right. Edith probably thinks you’re extremely confusing, which you _are_.”

“I believe I am quite consistent, actually.”

Enola rolls her eyes. “ _Men_.”

Sherlock smiles. “Aren’t you a little young to know all about men already?”

His sister scoffs. “Oh no, they’re perfectly simple.”

Sherlock has come to observe that, when Edith is anxious or troubled, her little cakes and custards are particularly fragrant and sweet, as if wishing to comfort her. The smell arrests him in the street. She must have taken out a fresh batch. He is about to knock on the door, when he realizes she is about to come out, so he steps aside.

Edith opens the door with one hand, while the other fiddles with the string of her wide-brimmed hat.

Sherlock holds the door open for her.

Her eyes widen. “I – _oh_ – you.”

“Yes…I suppose you do owe me,” he says by way of greeting.

Edith exhales and rolls her eyes at his joke.

“I hope this isn’t about your mother’s dress.”

Sherlock frowns. “You have a gift for bringing her up at most inopportune times.”

Edith smiles an impish smile, but he notes the nervousness in her eyes.

“I’m afraid we can’t have tea today. I have to be on my way. I’m late to a meeting. We’re going to discuss the Irish situation, apparently.”

“You think I came over for tea?” he asks, rather pointedly.

“Well – why else?”

Edith locks the door and turns towards the street. Sherlock follows her.

He notes with some perverse pleasure that she is wearing her high-necked dress, to cover up the mark, no doubt.

“I think the other night’s events require some formal acknowledgement, don’t you?”

Edith looks down, her face partly obscured by the brim of her hat. “Half of it was a dream, half of it was a nightmare.”

“I’m afraid to ask which part _I_ figure in.”

She chuckles. “That’s a trick question, for you are a bit of both, Sherlock Holmes.”

He can’t help feeling a little gratified by her answer.

“You left before the dream ended.”

“Don’t tell me you were disappointed,” she teases.

“I was indeed,” he says, dropping his voice an octave. “I would’ve liked a proper conclusion.” 

Edith exhales again. “I could not stay longer. Bad enough I stayed at all. I’ve already imperilled both our reputations.”

“So what?”

“So _what_? These things do matter to me, you know. I make a living off of my good name.”

He lowers his head. “I know that. But what if you could still keep your good name?”

Edith picks at a few petals in her hat. “That’s a pretty thought, but not very sensible. I’m lucky no one saw us at Vauxhall.”

Sherlock puts a hand on her arm, beckoning her to stop.

“You do realize we are in the middle of the street –”

“Edith. Do you wish me to leave you alone?”

“What?”

“It seems to me that all I do is cause you a world of trouble. If you wish me to leave you alone, just say the word. I promise I will.”

Her plump lips purse and her eyes glower with the amber light of anger. He always likes her angry, though it may not be prudent of him to incite her.

“That is hardly fair. You know I –” She stops, reins herself in. “A rational man such as yourself doesn’t operate with ultimatums.”

“And yet, I find them effective, now and then.”

“You are being quite impossible, if I may so myself.”

“You may. But it doesn’t answer my question,” he reminds her.

Edith huffs.

“You really are proud as a peacock. _Fine_. I don’t wish you to leave me alone, is that what you want to hear?”

A load seems to lift off his shoulders.

Yes. Well…I _was_ expecting a more effusive confession.”

She kicks him.

She kicks him in the knee.

But she does it in such a masterful, delicate way, that any onlooker would think she has merely lifted her skirts to bypass a puddle.

Sherlock struggles not to show the discomfort.

“Are you all right, Mr. Holmes? You seem to be hobbling,” she taunts, flicking the ribbon of her hat over her shoulder.

“You are a very cruel mistress,” he says, teeth gritted in manly effort.

“And there you have it,” Edith replies, looking straight ahead. “I shall be no one’s mistress, _ever_ , in any sense of the word.”

“I believe I once called you _partner_.”

“Do partners often kiss each other in pleasure gardens?” she asks, eyeing him curiously.

“If the occasion arises, as it certainly did.”

She smiles sadly. “I am quite fond of you, Sherlock. More than – more than I would ever care to admit. But you are being very selfish. You know that, don’t you?”

He looks away from her, jaw clenched.

After a while, he speaks.

“I know. I am always selfish, I’m afraid. It’s part of my breeding. And I know you are quite attached to your ‘good name’. You are its proud owner, after all. But Mrs. Holmes isn’t _quite_ so abysmal, though it does not sound as noble. I will allow you to call yourself Miss Grayston indoors, if you particularly wish it. Yes, I might enjoy playing at maidenhood, now and again.”

They’ve crossed into a busier thoroughfare where the intense foot traffic makes it harder to hear each other, but Edith could not have possibly misheard him.

She walks faster, fists clenched at her side.

Sherlock quickens his pace.

“I do hope you will not leave a gentleman in such dire straits. No marriage proposal could be so easily dismissed, surely.”

“You are _very_ lucky I do not have my umbrella on me, for I would’ve made lethal use of it,” she says through gritted teeth.

“Umbrellas, teapots, cakes, knives, knees… a litany of weapons you possess, but none quite so deadly as those eyes.”

Edith issues an annoyed little noise and tries to walk faster than him, but she is rather smaller and the hem of her dress does impede her. Sherlock quickly catches her arm and pulls her under the awning of a jeweller’s shop.

“What –”

“You _should_ have brought your umbrella, for it is about to rain,” he says, speaking directly into her ear.

Indeed, the sky breaks before he finishes the sentence. The afternoon shower is cold and brown and filled with muck, and yet there is something like toffee and gold in the little rivulets in the street and the drops falling from the lampposts.

“Your talents are wasted in the science of deduction when you could be calling the weather for English farmers everywhere,” she drawls, trying to manoeuver her elbow out of his grasp, but Sherlock is holding her fast.

“I will consider it as alternative means of income. Now, will you marry me?” 

Edith chokes on a laugh. “Are you quite out of your mind?”

“Not in the slightest, and I never understood why so many people doubt the solidity of my mind.”

“You can’t possibly – not even _you_ can –” she stammers. “This is another one of your games.”

“May God strike me down with a bolt of lightning,” he says, just as thunder rumbles in the distance.

“You don’t believe in God.”

“How does the saying go? I may not believe in him, but he believes in me.”

“You are full of wit and cant, but I know you. I know you do not mean it. Is this some kind of scheme for a case?”

His brow finally darkens. “Do you think so low of me, Edith?”

“You must admit, it is rather suspicious behaviour.”

“ _Suspicious_? Darling, I was probably close to undressing you in Vauxhall. Had I not proposed immediately after, I _would_ have been a suspicious character indeed.”

Edith does him the favour of blushing. “Well, you certainly don’t mince yours words.”

Sherlock smiles. “Neither do you. I believe we are a good match, in that respect.”

She shakes her head. “Oh God, this is ridiculous. _You_ are ridiculous.”

“Most lovers are.”

“Please stop.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop this absurd charade.”

“Edith, I will hire a carriage and take you to Gretna Green, if you insist upon immediate proof.”

She can’t help but laugh. The rain is now a fine sheet of pearls behind his broad back.

“You are – I cannot begin to say –”

“Then say yes.”

“No!”

“That is a rather passionate “no”. It feels almost tender.”

“ _Sherlock_.”

“What are your objections, beyond the social?”

“ _Beyond the social_? There is nothing beyond it. Can you imagine how badly it would go? We wouldn’t be able to show our faces in society. Your brother would probably die of a bad heart.”

“Oh no, he has given us his warm approval.”

“How …how on Earth did you secure that?”

“Well, I might have had tea with him at the club and I might have told him I was thinking of asking a young woman to marry me, but I did not know how to go about it, and would he be able to help? My brother loves giving lessons, so he instructed me to first send her a letter, informing her of my intent, so that she might be ready for the outpouring of sentiment. I decided that would be a rather poor strategy.”

“You don’t say,” she mutters. “And he did not ask about the young woman?”

“Oh, of course he did. He was very eager to know _which_ great paragon of the female sex had secured my inconstant heart and whether her dowry was substantial. I gave him your name and told him you are part of a many respectable women’s Societies, which is no lie, and that you have a number of properties to your name, which also errs on the side of truth. Now, my brother being who he is, he quite forgot who Edith Grayston _is_ and he doesn’t realize he’s come across you before, but he let me know that Edith is a very stout, moderate sort of name. He said he approves. Much better than _Eudoria_ or _Enola_ , he said. Those names have only caused him trouble.”

Edith opens her mouth and closes it several times before she finds the proper words to express her bewilderment.

“You – you practically tricked him into it.”

“It _is_ rather his fault for being an inattentive observer. Enola gets a great deal past him that way.”

“You do realize he will eventually notice that your wife is, shall we say, different from his set?”

“Is that a yes? You will be my wife, then? I believe we shall enjoy shocking him together.”

“This is not a joke, Sherlock.”

“I’m sorry. I shall try to look a little more sober, but I am rather happy at the moment.”

Edith glowers at him. “I have _not_ said yes.”

“But you will.”

“You are extremely presumptuous. I cannot upend my entire life –”

“You wouldn’t need to –”

“Where would we live, what would we do? I’m not about to abandon my shop and my pursuits to become a good little wife-”

“Goodness, have I given you the impression that I want a good little wife? I would have asked elsewhere.”

“But –”

“We will work on cases together, if that pleases you, and you will run your own ventures, including your shop, if that also pleases you. Mrs. Hudson will not mind my leaving my lodgings, for she has long wished matrimony for me and quiet retirement for herself.”

“You would move _here_? To Baker Street?”

“Why not? This neighbourhood is infinitely more varied and interesting. On the way here I contemplated purchasing the building adjacent to your shop. 221 B, I think is the number. We might have some very nice rooms there, if you don’t mind.”

Edith stares at him. “You thought all this up on your way to my shop?”

“Well, I also gave it much thought this morning.”

Edith jabs her finger in his chest. “You, Sir, have got your head in the clouds. This is only a whim. By tomorrow it shall pass, you’ll see.”

“A whim? I suppose I am not fixed on matrimony itself, but since we cannot live respectably otherwise, I must adhere to it.”

“That’s _not_ what I meant –”

“Edith, must I make violent declarations of love in the street?”

“God no!”

“Then believe me when I say I wish to marry you more than anything in the world, and it has little to do with whims. And I love you, of course.” He cocks his head to the side. “Perhaps I should have started with that.”

She can only look at him, stunned.

The rain’s soft, yet insistent patter on the awning above them muffles all sounds, except for their breathing.

“You will be ostracized. _I_ will be ostracized.”

“Many have made marriages like ours and lived to tell the tale,” he replies softly.

“I know that, but you belong to a different class of –”

“None of that, Edith. Change is inevitable, whether they like it or not. It will come, even in this dusty corner of the world. Haven’t you said so yourself? Today you are going to a meeting to discuss Irish radicals, tomorrow – who knows? Perhaps you will not only discuss the vote, but it shall be a reality. And the best way to hasten that reality is to lead by example.”

Edith scoffs. “When have you become so politically astute?”

“I have always been astute, just not political. But as you once told me, politics is the unseen instrument of our everyday lives. And my happiness depends upon it, so you see, I am obliged to care about who wields it.” 

She bites her lip. “You could certainly sell water to a fish.”

“Does that mean that I have convinced you?”

“ _No_.”

“But I am quite close, aren’t I?”

He can see she is fighting a smile. Her eyes are wet with unshed tears.

He cups her cheek.

“Edith. I would never hurt you. And I would probably be very cross, nay, simply murderous to anyone who ever tried. Do you think I would not take this seriously, for both our sake?”

She leans into his touch, almost unconsciously.

“Marriage is – I never quite contemplated marrying. It always felt too vast a project,” she confesses, her voice a little hoarse. 

“We both like a challenge, don’t we?”

She inhales sharply. “It feels more like stepping over a precipice.”

“Yes, rather. I am unaccustomed to it myself. But I have faith in our ability to remain air-borne.”

She laughs, though a small tear escapes the corner of her eye, which he catches with his thumb.

“I would go down on one knee,” he says, “but the pavement is rather wet and I would rather we did that inside.”

“Inside?”

Sherlock nods past her with a rather stricken look.

Edith turns her head.

Enola is standing in the window of the jeweller’s shop, grinning from ear to ear and clapping her hands.

“I apologize in advance for my sister’s shameful intrusion, but there was no getting rid of her,” Sherlock whispers in Edith’s ear.

Edith smiles. “I’m sure I won’t mind.”

“Wait until you see the wedding rings she has selected.”

“Oh, but I do not need – hang on, you had this entire walk planned! Right down to the jeweller’s!”

“Don’t forget the rain. I told you, I may not believe in God, but he believes in me.”

Edith looks like she may wish to abuse his knees again, but she stands on her toes instead and kisses him quickly on the lips.

It feels like the beginning of something both exciting and reassuring. New, yet utterly familiar.

“I think I deserve a little bit more than that for all my efforts,” he pouts, trying to hold her to him, but Edith slips past him and walks into the jeweller’s shop where she is greeted by Enola’s rather _shrill_ congratulations as she embraces his future wife and grins at Sherlock with the vexing superiority of the young.

_You see, I was right_ , she seems to say.

Sherlock smiles a rueful smile. Yes, perhaps he will give his sister the win today.


End file.
